Je Ne Regrette Rien
by Cinvxten
Summary: A bold assassination in London sends Detective Gregory St. Clair on a mission to find the dangerous killer before he strikes again. But with stakes mounting high, can Gregory keep his life from crumbling - even while staring into the face of his past?
1. Chapter 1

Caution: This section really has nothing to do with you, it's just me ranting. If you want some back story on what motivates me, read ahead. If not, skip to the break and read on.

I originally planned to submit this story in three long-ish chapters, but as I wrote the more daunting that prospect started to become, both for me to write and probably for my audience to read. So I'm backtracking to my earlier days when I put up not chapters but segments of stories that were generally shorter than what they would be all put together... Let me be frank, I don't like this style of writing (which is why I stopped doing it after I got serious about writing) for any number of reasons: I don't like fuck off cliff hangers at every chapter, something I was definitely doing before. I don't like the sense of haste and not-planning that go into making those smaller chapters. And most of all, I don't like how short they are... it makes me feel like I didn't write enough. But, the pros are I can get out chapters faster for those who care to read this story.

This is my attempt at a _Law and Order _type fanfiction. My first attempt, to be exact. I was inspired by Foodstamps _Lex Talionis _a long time ago, and it's taken me this long to come up with a proper story to counter hers. And even as I write this, I feel like a douche cause I was a little hard on Foodstamp's writing towards the end and now I realize how difficult it is to write something with this amount of depth and detail. I don't take back what I said (cause I'm a stubborn ass) but I do feel more empathy and understanding towards her. And once again, I demonstrate how not in her league I am. But whatever, she's way too busy to be reading my fanfics, so I'm off the hook, haha!

I actually put effort into my fact checking on this story, but it was still an average attempt. If there is any misinformation here (other than the fictional) please tell me about it, but also try to be understanding - I'm really not all that smart anyway.

**I'm 18 and almost a college student; I've been writing fanfics for years now. I don't give a fuck about disclaimers anymore. In fact, simply because I'm writing on a website that is dedicate to FANFICTIONS should negate any and all need to disclaim anything - by being on this site alone, we're all admitting to NOT owning the characters we're writing about. So from now on, fuck it. It's not like I'll get in trouble or anything.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Je Ne Regrette Rien**

**Chapter One**

Rain fell like cold, leaded pellets from the overcast sky, drilling holes into the asphalt and dirt on a microscopic level, breaking the bonds of the dead man's epidermis, causing the pallor flesh to collapse into itself, wrinkling. Everything was a wash of gray – from the shifting clouds covering the horizon to the dingy glaze over everybody's expression. The only color that stood out at all was the crimson blood that puddle into an icy pink, rippling with every bullet that cascaded from the drizzling storm, flowering in the sick quagmire.

Distant thunder harmonized the drumming of the rain as Detective Gregory St. Clair's mind briefly strayed to Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake_. He easily overcame the urge to hum a few bars before wiping the soaked, blonde hair from his eyes and adjusted his trench coat's collar. This rain was a bloody curse; already washing away priceless evidence. Right now, Gregory's immediate adversary wasn't the assassin, but every second that ticked away at his ears, like droplets on the pavement.

"Victim is Scott Bailey," reported Gregory's partner, Detective Alex Sharpton. His tone of voice was as bleak as the forecast. Everyone at the crime scene was feeling the weight of the storm on their hearts, and the rain didn't help either. "Yes, _the_ Scott Bailey. Cause of death: three bullet wounds to the chest. We expect he died instantly, but I sure as hell can't make that call. Wait for the official report. Shots were fired from the top of One Canada Square. And call an ambulance, why don't you…. Jesus Christ, this is just what I needed this week."

Gregory heard the static of the radio, but couldn't resist a stoic quip.

"Talking to the voices in your head again, Sharpton? Because _I'm_ certainly not listening to you."

"Yeah, they're all telling me it's crowded in here." Gregory's visage didn't falter – the frown plastered on his face was not the result of recent consequence, but a perpetual fixture to his thin lips. To say he wasn't in the mood for conversation was an understatement. After two years, he had murdered his appetite for human companionship. Regardless, idle small talk left a bitter taste on his tongue.

"We're not playing tennis here," Gregory grumbled, not losing his commanding undertone. "That wasn't an invitation, Sharpton."

"I know," Alex sighed, shrugging. He was in no mood either, though he was used to this kind of attitude from his partner by now. "But if I have to be the butt of your sarcasm, I might as well return the ball every now and again."

"Your optimism turns my stomach."

"Nothing turns your stomach, Greg. I would know." He glanced down at the draining color in Bailey's cheeks and clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Just another cadaver. Just more carrion for the vultures."

"Those vultures preyed on Scott all his life," Gregory commented. "The political spotlight is nothing more than a hotplate for the fat cats in their penthouses. Not even in death can he escape their flashing cameras. In fact, this will all be reduced to nothing more than a fleeting tabloid they can drink their morning coffee to."

"Not that they'll be doing much mourning."

Gregory blinked, mildly surprised. Sharpton was right: this was the closest he had ever been to a real life celebrity, but he could muster no excitement. Scott Bailey really was just another dead body to him. Just another job to solve.

"It's just so tragic," Alex continued, allowing an unprofessional amount of emotion to leak into his words. "_Lord _Scott Bailey wasn't even a Lord for a whole week before he gets sniped. During a press conference held in Westferry Road Plaza, no less. Can you think of any worse way to die?"

Gregory remained mute.

"Of course you can," Alex retracted, shuffling bashfully on the balls of his feet. "Sorry. I should have known better than to ask that."

"It was in broad daylight," Gregory mumbled, changing the subject, "if you excuse the irony of our situation. Whoever did this was either an idiot or a mastermind to have risked an assassination of a fledgling Supreme Court Justice." He wanted to tear his eyes away from the soggy skin of the deceased, but he could feel the image already burned into his consciousness.

"I'm leaning more towards idiot," Alex offered.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, we already know that the guy who did this had to be in one of the near by buildings. Roughly five minutes after the shots were fired, every building within a mile of here was shut down – on lock down. Doors were slammed shut, elevators stopped, primary electricity cut off. I'm actually surprised at how fast the minute men reacted. And police have already stormed the One Canada Square building and found the murder weapon. If our assassin had any escape plan at all, it's been foiled by now."

"Which means the perpetrator must still be in that building." Gregory ground his teeth so hard he feared they might crack. "Let's get going."

The lobby inside of One Canada Square was a bee hive of activity; men and women in uniform rushing past one another under the beaming florescent lights of the emergency generator. The entire building was being searched while workers and staff mingled idly by as their worlds were turned upside down by the terrorist plot. No one could have imagined an assassination on this scale let alone against one of the youngest, most popular United Kingdom Supreme Court Justices.

Gregory and Alex walked with purpose, seeking out the closest officer who actually looked like they knew what they were doing. They happened upon Sergeant Joan Reynolds who introduced herself with a curt salute.

"What do we have here, Sergeant?" Gregory began, cutting to the chase.

"We've already retrieved the murder weapon," Joan sighed. Gregory could tell that she was normally a high spirited person, but was taking this particular case a little harder than normal. Could he blame her? This has been one of the most bold and extreme crimes in Gregory's entire detective career.

"It's an FR F2 sniper rifle," she continued, gesturing towards the officers who were taking inventory. "Even if it wasn't raining up there, the gun showed signs of being wiped clean. We don't have fingerprints."

"Report has it that there was no traceable DNA samples to be found," Sharpton chimed in, flipping through his notepad.

"We did find two objects of interest." Joan flagged down an officer who handed her an evidence bag. "Here's the cigarette butt we found on the scene."

"Any DNA off of that?" Gregory inquired.

"None," Joan informed, holding the bag closer so the two detectives could see. "The filter end was clipped off by a something with a tapered edge. Most likely from the second object," she paused to retrieve the item in question and displayed it with a dubious frown, "a shovel."

"Fibers?"

"Zero; the perp must have been wearing gloves, but even fabric is missing from the grain of the wood. We didn't even find the other end to the cigarette _or_ the three bullet casings. This guy was meticulous."

"And he only had minutes to cover his tracks and escape," Gregory recounted. "So… did the cheeky bastard repel off the side of the building and no one saw him or do we have a man in custody."

"The floors are being searched as we speak, Detective."

"That desk over there," Gregory pointed. "I'd like to speak to the receptionist to see if they remember anybody suspicious. And, Sergeant Reynolds, I'd like you to personally oversee the handling of the video tapes. Get everyone in this building accounted for. Don't let anyone leave."

The lobby receptionist stood with his back against the wall, tapping his foot nervously against the polished tile. As soon as Gregory and Alex began making their way towards him, his face blanched as if he knew what was coming to him. The fact that he was a relatively young looking man – possibly in his early twenties – did nothing to convince Gregory that he was beyond aiding and abetting.

"Excuse me," Alex smiled, "Mister… Jacob, is it? We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Can you recall any persons with behavior that may be construed as suspicious enter the building before or during Lord Scott Bailey's press conference?" Gregory stared down at him with a fiery intensity, and the boy seemed to shrink back into the woodwork of the walls.

"No, no, no," Jacob rifled off in quick succession. "Everything was normal in here, everything was fine."

"The UK's most prominent Justice was assassinated by someone from this very building and you're saying everything is fine. I'd hate to see what sick entertainment you consider to be a social life."

Alex stepped forward a bit, cutting Gregory off from direct contact to Jacob. They didn't explicitly play good-cop-bad-cop; that was just the dynamic of their partnership. Gregory couldn't help being bitter and blunt. "Make no mistake, Jacob," Alex started in a concerned tone. "If you're hiding something and we find out you lied to us, you're going to be a lot worse off. Be honest. C'mon, mate."

Jacob's eyes darted in every direction but forward, avoiding locking gazes with either men at all costs. "I can't," he whimpered.

"Jacob," Alex whispered. "Do you like the idea of jail? Do you want to go there? If you do, then by all means, keep obstructing us. My partner, St. Clair here, will be more than happy to cart you off to the station. Do it for yourself, mate."

The boy fidgeted a little more before bursting open. "I wasn't at the desk – please don't tell my boss, I'll get canned!" He stopped to collect his thoughts, noticeably calming down. Gregory rolled his eyes in annoyance and turned his back to them, staring off in the direction of the elevators. "I left about twenty minutes before Lord Bailey showed up down the street. No one else was down here, everyone was on the tenth floor watching the press conference. I went up to join them. Bailey was a hero to me, I hated to watch him die!"

"Yeah, it's a real mess," Alex agreed, feeling sorry for the boy. Yes, one of their leads had just been nipped in the bud, but at least they still had the video cameras. "I bet you Lord Collins would be tossing in his grave if he'd been buried yet. Two Supreme Court Justices dead within a month of each other. And one murdered! Tragic."

A soft _ping_ caught Gregory's attention. He broke away from the other two, keeping his arms crossed, and watched as a set of elevator doors slid open. A woman and a man in dark clothes stepped out, seemed to say goodbye to each other, and parted ways – the man going down the hall towards the basement stairs.

"Sharpton," Gregory barked, bringing his partner's full concentration towards him. "Didn't you tell me all of the elevators were cut from power?"

"They were… _are_."

"Then why is that one functioning?"

Gregory and Alex exchanged glances before both of them drew their handguns from their shoulder holsters, running towards the elevator hallway. Sergeant Reynolds witnessed their sudden dash and called after them. "Detain that woman!" Gregory ordered, turning down the hallway and up to the just closing door of the basement levels. Damn! His feet were slipping; his soles had hardly any traction!

Bursting through the door, Gregory nearly plummeted down the stairs immediately in front of him, but like a feline, expertly kept his composure, using the momentum to carry him the rest of the way to the bottom floor. Beyond the flickering lights, he could just barely make out the body of a man at the end of the hall, sprinting frantically.

"Freeze!" Gregory shouted (and instantly regretted saying such a stupid thing) before aiming his gun. He was a good shot, but not at this distance. Not in the dark. He broke into a run to catch up with the man as he disappeared behind another set of doors, Sharpton staying on his heels.

Years of training had prepared Gregory for occasions such as these. He was fit and determined. So why was his heart pounding so hard he could taste it in his mouth? This wasn't simple adrenaline. This was a fear that Gregory had only felt twice in his entire life.

The doors gave way to a pitch black storeroom; a giant area with shelves and boxes and janitor equipment as far as the eye could see. Gregory contemplated the possibility of an ambush, but it was two against one and the assassin's only objective was to get away as fast as possible. Killing a police officer would be stupid and unnecessary if he could simply slip away unnoticed.

Gregory allowed his eyes to adjust while holding his semi-automatic at arm's length. It was dead silent. He could hear his heart pulsing every second, feeling his veins dilate and throb against his skin, even over his shallow breathing. Alex was right behind him, his footsteps heavy. How many times had Gregory told him to be light on his feet as to not give away his position? The rookie never learned, even after two whole years.

They searched the room, top to bottom, leaving no corner unaccounted for, no dark shadow left unsecured.

"Damn it," Alex hissed between his teeth. "There's no one here, Greg. He must have slipped back out the other end while we had our backs turned."

"No," Gregory calmly whispered. "We definitely would have seen him go by or at least heard the door reopen." He quickly cast his gaze toward the firmly shut exit. "He has to still be in the room."

"Where the hell's our back up?"

A dense blackness caught Gregory's eye and instantly his shoulders dropped. "Sharpton," he called, dejected. His legs felt like they were weighted with led as he approached the circle of darkness and ran his fingers over its border. "A hole. There's a hole in the wall."

Alex soon followed suit, his face dropping in disbelief. "A tunnel," he sighed.

Gregory crouched onto his haunches and examined the hole – admiring it. "I'll bet you 50 Euros that tunnel leads right up to the street level, beyond the police barricade, and straight to a get away car that was lying in wait for him." He lowered his head into his free hand, messaging his pounding temples. "He got away."

"He dug a fucking tunnel!" Alex cursed, still unable to wrap his mind around it.

Gregory holstered his gun and counted on his fingers: "A rifle that's been wiped clean, no bullet casings, no DNA or fingerprints, and an escape tunnel that must have been excavated preemptively. I have to commend the bastard. He planned this whole thing out to a tee."

"Well, we caught him in one mistake," Alex nodded.

"What's that?"

"An eye witness." Alex beamed. "The woman from the elevator. No way he planned on her."

Gregory took a deep breath in the hopes of activating his parasympathetic chemicals so that he could think straight and slowly rose to his full height. "Let's get moving then. We have no time to waste."

Alex didn't move, still running his eyes over the hole in the wall. It was practically a perfect circle.

"Sharpton?"

"Like a fucking mole…" Alex mused to himself before heading for the stairs.

Gregory felt his heart lurch again and bit down on his bottom lip – the last nervous habit he just couldn't rid himself of. With his cold, gray eyes, Gregory glared into the tunnel wishing the heat of his gaze would incinerate the assassin above, knowing it would do no good.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "That just about sums it up…."

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End of Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

College has been kicking my ass. I've been writing plenty, but none of it has actually been fanfiction - mostly a lot of original work. This is part two to my _Law and Order/South Park_ type story. I'm sorry it took me so long to get out, but I've been really busy. And I have no idea when the next chapter will be out. I've kinda lost some inspiration for this story. But I'm sure if I just revisit it a little, that'll come back eventually. This looks like it's going to turn out to be a fic with lots of chapters though, that's for sure!

Another way to get me motivated is obviously to review the story and help me know that you're actually interested in it! So... do that, haha!

**Enjoy!**

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**Je Ne Regrette Rein **

**Chapter 2**

Gregory St. Clair was always in the process of moving.

He'd lived in the same flat for a total of twenty-two months, one week, and four days, but his apartment was a maze of cardboard boxes and plastic wrap that scraped his too low ceilings. It was an organized clutter with everything thoroughly dusted right down to the counter tops and door knobs. Sam down at the grocery store made a killing off of Gregory because every week without fail he would buy a new can of Pledge and a packet of wipes. Mess was not something Gregory tolerated. Unpacking was something he loathed more than anything.

Already ten till nine, Gregory was only just arriving home with his bag of foodstuffs for his late night meal (a ritual that was becoming increasingly more common, considering his work load that never seemed to shrink). But already, something was wrong. It wasn't an obvious wrong, but a creeping one. The kind that made you neck shiver and forced you to glance over your shoulder at shadows that only appeared to move.

The climb up the steps to his flat was haunted by more than just creaking wood, but an added sense of unwanted companionship. And when Gregory looked down at the key in his hand hovering centimeters away from the lock, he was struck with an invisible but unmistakable feeling or something being out of place. An urge based on pure instinct and curiosity alone, Gregory placed the metal key between his teeth and twisted the door knob.

It easily gave way with a muffled click. Gregory never left his apartment unlocked.

Forcing himself to keep calm, he layered an apathetic expression over his face and walked nonchalantly inside as if nothing were the matter. He walked straight to the kitchen area, just as he always did, and placed down the paper grocery bag gently. On his way in, he clicked the play button to his stereo; _Swan Lake_ flooding in full crescendo through his alert and perked pinna. He only paused a moment to revel silently in the coincidence before setting off to work again.

Gregory placed each item on the counter top, drifting across the gleaming tile with a straightened back. He opened his bottom cabinet to retrieve a pot and began filling it with water, the faintest hint of cigarette smoke wafting through his nostrils, exciting him.

"I don't remember inviting you to dinner," he called with a smirk.

"Je ne me souviens avior demande."

"You always were the type to drop in unannounced," Gregory agreed. He set the pot to boil on the stove and retrieved a cutting board and a knife, cutting the chicken breast exactly to his specifications. "My, my," Gregory started, wiping away the sweat from his brow. "You certainly are taking a lot of risks today. Picking my lock, lurking in my house… assassinating Lord Bailey."

"I do what I must to catch your attention."

Gregory pressed down on the knife with a loud chop leaving a nice gash in the wood. "I'd say your attention seeking stepped over a few boundaries this time, Christophe." He leered over his shoulder, into the darkness. All he could see was the smoke dancing in the light of the overhead bulbs. "Are you going to make this easy for me and turn yourself in?"

The only answer was a deep, slow, almost orgasmic inhalation and an even slower exhale of haze. Gregory could sense him smiling around his cigarette.

"Will you at least tell me who hired you?"

A barely audible chuckle. "Guess."

Gregory flicked the kitchen knife into the air, caught the steely end between his fingers, and hurled the knife, piercing the shadows with a vibrating thud. More smoke leaked into the light.

"You can't intimidate me, Gregory. Je suis comme un fantome."

"I wasn't trying to intimidate you," the blonde admitted, feeling too many emotions swirling towards the surface of his brain. "I just wanted to remind you of how impatient I am. And I won't stand for your bullshit. Not in _my_ house."

"By the looks of things, this could be anyone's house." The silhouette's head tilted back and forth as if scanning the room. "Nevermind. This could be no one's house but yours. So bland and dull. Nothing that could reveal even the slightest of sentimental value. No, this is definitely your house, Gregory. Everything of any worth hidden below mountains of boxes and bubble wrap."

Gregory went back to preparing his meal. "If you came here just to insult me –"

"There aren't even any photographs of me."

Gregory hunched himself over the counter with a weary sigh. "I haven't unpacked them yet."

"Too many memories, huh?"

"We've got you on tape, Christophe," Gregory said, no longer in the mood for such detached conversation. If they were going to talk, the least they could do was talk over dinner; none of this espionage crap. "An eyewitness, as well. I'll be speaking to her in the morning. She'll tell us everything. We'll catch you, Christophe."

"You can't catch me, Gregory. You of all people should know that much."

Gregory stopped and gripped the edge of the counter top until his knuckles glowed white. Eventually the scent of cigarette smoke was replaced with nothing but silence and Gregory knew that Christophe was gone.

There was a certain love-hate relationship that Gregory and Interrogation Room Number 4 had with each other. Often times he felt jaded by the lack of cooperation Number 4 gave him; more than once he volunteered for the graveyard shift to take a mop to the place, but all of the darkness, pain, and blood was still there. And there was nothing a few suds and a pair of rolled up sleeves could do about it.

The concrete floors of Number 4 were permanently stained with grime from all sorts of people – criminals and innocents alike. There was something inherently dirty about a police station that had nothing to do with bodily fluid or human excrement. The cold, steel square of a table rocked back and forth when leaned on, not that anybody would ever want to. Gregory couldn't count the times he'd swiped manila folders over that glossy surface, each one containing obscene, gruesome pictures of sick bastards who thought they were God's gift to mankind. Justified.

It was no wonder Terry Mortan shied away from the eight by ten photo of Bailey, sprawled out on the soaked asphalt like a crucifixion. The two way mirror reflected her image as she wiped down the table compulsively with a spotless, white handkerchief. Gregory was tempted to address her as "Lady McBeth" despite the fact that Sharpton had assured him she had nothing to do with the crime. Terry was merely an innocent by-stander caught up in this mess.

"I apologize for my appearance," she said in her brisk – all be it, shaky – London accent. "I really haven't had time to collect myself since yesterday." Gregory nodded, doing his best to keep professional while giving off an air of sympathy. Something that was growing harder and harder to do. How could he relate to others when he knew that nobody could ever relate to him?

"It's all right, Mrs. Mortan," Gregory assured her. "You're not in any trouble here. We just want you to relay to us all the information you can about the man you met in the elevator."

Terry licked her lips nervously, the dulling lipstick retaining the only color left on her paling face. Of course she felt uncomfortable: Interrogation Room Number 4 was designed to make people feel that way. It wasn't like she was under the spotlight for any particular reason, it was just a cruel twist of fate that all the other rooms were taken.

"He was so cordial," she smiled briefly, remembering the events. "I held the elevator door for him as he called down the hall. He ran in, sweating from the jog, said he'd been working too hard to take the stairs down. I pressed the button for the lobby."

"So we can't even fingerprint the elevator…" Gregory murmured to himself. "Not like we'd get anything anyway."

"The man had on a black shirt and cap with a belt full of tools around his waist. I commented on how he was drenched and he said he was outside in that storm working, that he was a mechanic. He even made a joke about being to underpaid to work in such foul weather without workers comp."

Terry's young face contorted and she winced with quick sobs as reality slammed into her. "Oh my God," she heaved, breathless. "He was a murderer! I flirted with a murderer!"

"Mrs. Mortan," Gregory interjected, trying to bring her back. "What happened after that? How did he get the elevator moving?"

Terry clasped her hand over her mouth and let out a few dry sobs before wiping her eyes daintily. "I didn't even know that Lord Bailey was going to be there that afternoon. I heard nothing about the shooting, so when the elevator shut down I shocked out of my mind. I would have panicked if that man hadn't assured me that it was nothing. He opened a panel underneath the buttons and… fumbled around with the wires for a few minutes. Calm as could be. He got the elevator working again and I couldn't thank him enough. The doors opened and we… parted ways – damn, why didn't I do anything to stop him?"

"You can't blame yourself, Mrs. Mortan. This man was an expert, he had everything planned. But you're where he went wrong. Now, it would do us a lot of good if you were able to describe him; hair color, eye color, approximate height and weight… any distinguishing features?"

Terry took a couple more deep breaths and shook her head up and down emphatically. "Anything. I'll give you anything you need on him. Just promise me you'll put the fuck behind bars… pardon my French."

Gregory went rigid and the pencil in his hand almost snapped in half between his fingers. He swallowed hard to extinguish the emotion brewing in his stomach and returned his eyes to his notepad. "Let's just start by a physical description of the assailant."

"Brown hair, brown eyes… um, very fit, if but stocky.… Not much taller than me. I'd say he was just a hair shorter than you actually."

"Thank you very much," Gregory replied. He barely had to listen to her, writing down the description almost from memory. "Do you think you would be able to give us a composite sketch of the man in question?"

"Absolutely," Terry insisted, straightening herself out in the rickety chair with conviction and pride flashing behind her pupils. "I'd be more than happy to."

"And if we need you to testify or corroborate your claims with a line-up of possible suspects?"

"Just call me," she growled. "Anytime, I'll be here at a moment's notice. I spent nearly half and hour with that man. I'd know his face anywhere."


End file.
